


The Thread that Binds Us

by verbaepulchellae



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:19:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbaepulchellae/pseuds/verbaepulchellae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is made of fabric and stuffing. John is constantly sewing him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thread that Binds Us

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired, yet again, by a beautiful prompt of the Sherlock_kink_meme.

The first time Sherlock comes home, stuffing poking though the tear in his fabric, John sits open mouthed as Sherlock completely ignores his tear and putters around the flat in a way that is uniquely Sherlock. When Sherlock finishes sorting his new fingers in the fridge and guiltily tossing away week old chemicals in a coffee mug, he wanders over to his violin and as he picks it up, the tear on his side rips further. John can’t help himself anymore.

“Sherlock, aren’t you going to fix that?”

Sherlock glances down in surprise, as if he hadn’t realized he was coming apart at the seams and then shrugs. “When I get to it.” He picks up his bow and begins to play. John sits through twenty minutes of Mozart before he goes to fetch his sewing kit.  
When John sits him down, Sherlock shifts and sighs and jitters his leg on the floor but when John gently eases his loose stuffing back inside of him and sets his sewing kit on his knees Sherlock stills and watches with eyes as back as buttons. John sews in small, tight stitches that have Sherlock patched up in no time. 

“How’s that?” he asked when he finished.

Sherlock twisted to look at his side. Then he smiled

Sherlock tears a lot, not uncommon for a man who is constantly getting into trouble and it becomes normal for John to sew him up. Before John, Sherlock sewed splits and gashes alone in his bedroom. He always used cheap thread, raw and coarse, sewing up all the imperfections in long, confident stitches. They may have been a little rough, but they held him together. John always does him up in white, fine thread, but when he looks closely later, he can still make out the seams he’s done. Sherlock is a visual display of his scrapes and scars and his imperfections.

Sometimes, Sherlock bursts in odd places. During cases, the seams at Sherlock’s temples begin to strain and stuffing will poke through. If the cases go on too long, those seams are liable to burst, but John sews them back into Sherlock’s hairline. John is careful to make those stitches extra tight, because they’re probably contain more than the rest of Sherlock’s body put together.

Tears appear along Sherlock’s fine fingers after long periods without cases. John’s sure he must pick at the thread there, because the tips of his fingers are always the most frayed and the seams are loosest at the top. John gently reshapes the stuffing into long cylinders and sews back up the loose fabric snugly. Sherlock’s fingers always looked so delicate. Now that John knew them so well, they were only more so.

Somewhere along the line amidst the cases and dinners out, science experiments and knowing looks, late night cups of tea and snide comments, earth shattering rows and shared blankets during movies, Sherlock’s chest begins to expand. It’s out of the blue really, on one of their down nights, John falls asleep in his chair while reading his book, and when he wakes up he’s been covered in a blanket and Sherlock is glaring down at the bit of stuffing sticking out of his left breast.

“Alright?” John asks as he sets his book aside and stands to examine the tear. “What happened?”

“Nothing, just burst.” Sherlock mutters, unbuttoning his dark blue shirt all the way so John can push it aside and gently fit the needle and thread to the torn edge.  
But John’s normally fine needlework doesn’t seem to hold this time. The same place keeps bursting during quiet moments between them. As John sits and sews Sherlock back together for what must be the twentieth time, he finds that he can’t make the ends meet. 

“Sherlock, have you added stuffing?” he asks as he gently tries to pull the split fabric together.

“Of course not. Why would I do that?”

“It’s just, it’s like you’ve shrunk, or your chest has expanded.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Can you fix it?”

In the end John manages to make the edges meet.

It lasts until they’re watching a movie and Sherlock has snugged up to John’s side and John tosses an arm over his shoulders, mostly so it’s more comfortable for him. Sherlock’s chest rips loudly.

This time, John simply can’t sew Sherlock up properly, so he goes and finds one of his oldest, most comfy shirts and makes a patch for Sherlock. Sherlock looks down at him while John sews it on, button black eyes filled with something that set’s John’s heart beating faster, feeling fuller. 

“How’s that?” he asks when he’s done, still kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, hands bracing himself on Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock touches his cheek with fingers John’s fixed up. “It’s wonderful, John.”


End file.
